


Waving the Cape

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6113305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the bull sees red. Sequel to Querencia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waving the Cape

**Author's Note:**

> I feel way less shame for writing this than I probably should. This is a follow-up to Querencia, and again, these were greatly inspired by the Breaking Point series of fanfiction, which can be found on this site. Highly recommended, she's a way better writer than I am. 
> 
> Enjoy! Maybe!

You're sitting in another suite, at a different hotel, in a different state, watching a different debate. To say that this one has been anything less than shamefully entertaining would be a massive understatement. Few things tickle you more than watching the Republicans destroy themselves, and you let yourself laugh at the antics, feeling appropriately appalled that this is the state of your competition across the aisle. Assuming you can secure the nomination, this contest will almost be easy compared to running against Bernie. It's a bold statement, but you'll let yourself be a little cocky. You're fresh off a win in Nevada, after all, and all signs look good for another win soon. Your phone vibrates on the table next to the chair you're seated on. You ignore it. Whatever it is can wait. You're on friendly ground here. You're all but guaranteed a devastating victory. You deserve this moment and everyone on your campaign knows it. Besides, they could use a break too. 

You watch Rubio's and Trump's verbal battle. Marco hasn't impressed you much thus far but you'll give him credit for sheer aggressiveness. None of Jeb's attacks ever landed quite as hard as Rubio's are tonight, and Trump almost looks flustered. This is better than reality TV as far as you're concerned. 

They let Ben Carson speak for the first time in about twenty minutes. He says something about a fruit salad and then Wolf moves on. At this point, this is a race between three men, though Cruz seems less and less of a contender each passing day. Of the three, only Rubio likely poses an actual threat, and it's one your people are already assessing. You have renewed faith in your campaign, and you know that as long as you can keep up your momentum that you stand a wonderful chance of being one of the two left standing. 

This pleasant thought is interrupted by your phone vibrating again and this time your eyes shift towards the device almost disdainfully. You pick it up. Two messages. Both from a number you don't have saved in your contacts, but one that causes you to smirk almost involuntarily once you recognize it. 

"I'm in the lobby," the first text reads, as if self-explanatory. 

Then the second. "Invite me up."

You set the phone down, not bothering to reply, and you wait, knowing you won't have to wait long. Mere minutes pass before you hear a sharp knock at your door. You make sure to take your time to open it, certain that her impatience will get the better of her.

That, and you don't want to look too eager to see her. But that's a thought you try to ignore. 

You aren't really surprised to find her standing there, looking much less indignant than you were hoping. She's got one hand behind her back, and her expression is as unreadable as always, her calculating eyes giving away nothing. You cross your arms and regard her openly.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you ask her, feigning the slight annoyance in your voice, knowing she'll pick up on it.

Carly smiles back at you, at your tone that she knows is faked, but there is no warmth in the expression and it comes off as much more a sneer than anything. She shrugs plaintively. "I happened to be in town." 

"You happened to be in town," you repeat. She can tell that you don't believe her. She purses her lips. "If you must know," she says, that self-appointed sense of superiority she possesses creeping into her voice, "I'm giving a talk for the South Carolinian Federation of Republican Women."

You don't bother fighting down what you know is an incredibly condescending smile, mostly because you don't want to but also because you want to see how she'll react. "That sounds like something you made up," you remark, and the corner of her mouth twitches but you don't give her a chance to retort. "How did you get this room number?"

She smirks at you. "I told someone on your staff that I was a flower delivery company."

You return her expression. "You brought me flowers?" 

She reveals what she'd been hiding behind her back. White lilacs. You laugh openly, delighted, because you know why she brought you lilacs. Lilacs are unlucky. Something that had ended up surprising you about Carly Fiorina was that she was both capable and possessing of a very knowledgeable but vicious sort of pettiness. Hers was a bravado not born of ignorance. You take the flowers from her outstretched hand and regard them. They're pretty, pure looking things. 

"I'm throwing these away when you leave," you say, turning away from her and moving back into your suite. She follows, uninvited but uncaring. "Do what you want with them. I don't care."

"Good," you say. You throw them onto a table. She stands in front of the TV, watching the screen with what anyone else would call a blank expression, but you know better. You can tell by her eyes and the tautness in her jaw that she's annoyed and embarrassed by what she's seeing. Probably still a little hurt over her failed campaign. You can tell she wishes she was up there.

You consider telling her that you know she could have held her own on that stage, even given the frenzy currently taking place, but you don't really want to give her the satisfaction. Instead, you take the chance to study her without her watching. She's wearing what is perhaps your favorite outfit of hers. Black slacks, black blazer, black vest over a blue shirt. It's one of the outfits she wore campaigning in New Hampshire. It's a masculine look that you appreciate on her. 

It's funny though, you realize, tracing your eyes along the straight lines and angles of her form. She really isn't your type at all. Yet here she stands, possessing your total attention. You aren't even listening to the debate anymore, let alone watching it. This isn't something you understand, and you doubt that she does either, but perhaps it's better to keep pretending that the real reason she's here doesn't really matter. As far as the both of you are concerned, she's here to spar, and you'll gladly oblige her. 

"So," you say, retaking your seat, looking up at her with a carefully tailored expression of what you know will pass as boredom. "The South Carolinian Federation of Republican Women."

"Yes, I have a speaking engagement," she says, turning her gaze from the TV and meeting yours. Her eyes are challenging. She hasn't sat down. You let out a little huff of a laugh, if it could be called as much. "You were quick to capitalize on your fifteen minutes of relevance," you say, crossing your legs and leaning back into your chair. "A businesswoman through and through."

"Well, not all of us can coast on our husband's accomplishments forever," she immediately remarks, her expression unchanging. It's an unoriginal insult that doesn't carry much weight, given that you've probably accomplished more than Bill has at this point in your career and she knows it. Still, you resist the urge to roll your eyes. She came out swinging as always. The matador to your bull, already waving her red cape and shaking her spear. Carly never was one for subtlety. 

You shrug, looking away from her. "Funny that you say that, given that what you consider an accomplishment is considered by most to be an abject failure."

You can tell that one drew a little blood. She twists her mouth and her fingers twitch at her sides, and she crosses her arms too late to hide it. You don't give her a chance to recover. Perhaps you evenly traded barbs in New Hampshire, when both of you were on shaky footing, but last time you were days away from a demoralizing loss. The circumstances now are very different. Maybe it's unfair to kick her while she's down, but to deny yourself the chance to put her in her place after all her needling and all her insults wouldn't do either of you any favors. This is a contest, and in a contest there is a winner and a loser. You know which one you are. 

You stand up, moving around the chair to make yourself a drink. You don't offer her one. "I read an article written about you, after you suspended your campaign," you say, eyes flicking to her face, watching her internal struggle to maintain her calm. "The Deadspin one. Did you see it?"

You know she'd seen it. There was no way that someone hadn't told her about it, even just out of pity. It was titled thus: Lifelong Failure Carly Fiorina Does What She Does Best, and it had been filed to Obituaries. It was a brutal piece of work, savage enough to probably devastate even the hardest of individuals. You have no doubt she'd done all she could to forget about it. 

In addition to mentioning a mediocre tenure at Lucent, failure at HP, her very expensive and very doomed run for Senate and finally her attempt at presidency, the article concluded by stating what was a wonderfully concise and vicious fact, that Carly's only real skill was hucksterism. Fail, call it a success, get richer off that failure, repeat. Perhaps most painfully of all, however, was that Trump did the same thing she did, only he was much much better at it. If that wasn't enough to make an individual want to dig themselves into a nice deep hole, you aren't sure what is.

You asked the question innocently enough, but the expression that flashes across her face is almost enough to make you feel bad. Almost. You'll create no illusions about this situation because you know she isn't a good person. This is what she'd asked for when she came knocking at your door with a bouquet of lilacs, after all. 

So you watch her, waiting for the thread to snap. You raise your glass to your lips and swallow. She surprises you though, when she takes a shaky breath and drops her shoulders, twisting her lips into a smirk. You're almost disappointed that you didn't goad her into doing what you'd wanted her to do, but no matter. You can keep this up as long as she chooses to. It won't be you who makes the first move. 

"Interesting that you mention that. I've seen a few articles about you pop up too," she says, regarding you with open contempt and another emotion that you identify easily after the last time. Her comment is an understatement. Not a day passes that you don't have some flustered aide running up to you waving a shaking sheaf of paper around, telling you what they've written about you now. You're used to it at this point and you give her a look that implies as much. "Yes, I'm sure you have," you drawl, raising a brow. She smirks triumphantly though, a dangerous expression, you realize too late. "There's a recurring theme, one that's stuck around, as much as you wish it hadn't," she says, lazily pacing a few steps, arms still crossed, totally in her element as the aggressor. She finally stills and her dark eyes lock on yours, and then she's says it, the one thing that would perhaps be enough to break your self-control. "You must really not want those Wall Street transcripts released."

Your grip around your glass tightens instinctively. You do all you can to smother the immediate rush you feel as she reveals what she's been building up to, but she catches it and smiles spitefully, cocking her head. "What do they say? Must be something rather nasty. Something you don't want anyone to know about. Otherwise why not just release them? Isn't that the big unanswered question?"

She walks over to you and bends at her waist. You haven't moved. She takes your glass from your hand, stands back up, and drinks the remaining contents of the glass in one swallow. You watch, your face frozen, relentlessly empty of any sort of indication that she may have just gotten the better of you. Once again you've let yourself underestimate just how much gall she has. She sets the empty glass down and looks at you once more, her narrowed eyes dark, a hateful desire reflected between the both of you. 

"There's something else that they say in those articles," she mutters, her voice low and husky, a far cry from the clear and almost condescending tone she normally adopts around you. She's close enough that you can smell her perfume and something else. She smells like iron. "They say that Hillary Clinton is at her most dangerous when she's backed into a corner. I've yet to see that they're right."

You know you're being baited. This understanding does absolutely nothing to stop what happens next, what was destined to happen the moment she showed up in the lobby of your hotel with a nasty grudge and a fistful of unlucky lilacs. 

You stand up, inches away from her. It would be debated later who moved first, who pushed first, but the end result is the same. Your mouth is on hers, aggressive and unrelenting, every bite and every snap matched on her end. You turn her and push her back onto the bed with no gentleness, no kindness, your hands rough as you tear off her blazer and pop the buttons on her vest and shirt, her long nails sharp in your scalp and harsh against your shoulders as your palms slide against any inch of skin you can reach. You look at the cross around her neck and for one moment you consider ripping it off, but then she distracts you by trying to flip you both over and get on top but you resist, planting a knee between her legs and stilling her revolt as she moves against you, sharp gasps filling the infrequently created spaces between your mouths each time you part for a little bit of air. You slide the straps off her shoulders and bend down to kiss the scars across her breasts, this action obligatory and as tender as you'll be to her tonight. 

This is almost reminiscent of that night in New Hampshire, but you'd both been drunker and clumsier, almost hesitant as you tested the waters between each other. There's none of that now. You waste no time in taking off her slacks and sliding your hand between her legs, fingers twisting, adding force by leveraging your wrist against your thigh as you fuck her, her own hands traveling all over you with zero discrimination, one tugging hard on your hair and the other clawed into your sweater, trying to rip it off, while you mutter filth into her ear. 

In hindsight, this was nothing like the first time. There was a malice here that would have shocked you if it wasn't her, of all people. This nasty sort of chemistry that had formed between you was so volatile, so ugly, so necessary, that until now you realized that you'd never known the true meaning of hate-fucking. 

She fights you for control, even as she begins to arch harder into you. With your free hand you grasp her hair and pull, not hard enough to hurt her but enough that her chin is forced back and she has to look at you while she comes, eyes wide, pupils huge, as she says your name, over and over. Hillary, Hillary, Hillary. The words fading as she tensed and then relaxed, boneless, beaten, but willingly so. 

Ultimately, you'd given her exactly what she'd wanted. Whether that was your intent or whether that was what you had wanted seemed irrelevant in a moment like this, with her undone beneath you, the power play again shifted in your favor, just as it should be. Suddenly all of the horrible things that had been said seemed inconsequential given the result. You don't give her long to recover. You turn her over and push her shoulders down, silently indicating what you expect from her. She'd forced you into a corner for her own purposes, and now that you'd fought your way out of it, it was her turn. 

What you had learned after New Hampshire was that Carly approaches sex the same way she approaches everything: much too confidently given her actual skill set. From the first few moments it was obvious she'd never been with another woman. To you though, it was irrelevant, because you had been more interested in what you could do to her than what she could do to you. Not to say you don't feel a rush now when you look down and see her between your legs, face obscured by a veil of hair as she works her mouth against you, but you'd be lying if you didn't say that it wasn't so much her talent as it is the raw imagery of having a woman like that beneath you. You can tell though that she remembers what you like, and even though her tongue is amateurish it does nothing to hinder your experience. You talk to her sweetly, tell her what a good job she's doing, act as if it was always you who was in control, even as she wrestled it away from you, even for just a moment. She won't forget that moment, perhaps neither of you will, but as you come against her mouth you very greatly doubt that of all the moments you've shared thus far, that one will be the most memorable.


End file.
